Proving Grounds
by Sarah Kathleen
Summary: Extreme AU, historically inaccurate. Crossover with 'The Scarlet Pimpernel.' “The only thing stronger than lust for revenge is love, and sometimes not even love can stop it.” Username formerly Carlses.
1. Cast of Characters

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything of or relating to the works of Jane Austen, Baroness Emmuska Orczy, or C.S. Forester.

**Genre**: action/adventure, romance, suspense

**Summary**: "The only thing stronger than lust for revenge is love, and sometimes not even love can stop it."

**Warnings**: extreme AU, historically inaccurate

**Author's Note**: This is one scary beast, but I think I want to tackle it… Hopefully I'll pull it off. : ) No knowledge of any Jane Austen book or _The Scarlet Pimpernel _are required, as I have taken both worlds, thrown them together and mixed them up with a bit of history, then taken that combination and mutilated it beyond repair.

* * *

**Cast of Characters**  
underlining denotes a historical figure

**French Gentry/Military/Citizens**

_Josephine Aldridge (Citizen)_  
Half French daughter of an English gentleman. Spent most of her life in France, becoming an actress. Intimate friend to Marguerite Blakeney, nee St. Just, and equally republican. Secretly engaged to Col. Richard Fitzwilliam

_Elizabeth Bennét (Gentry)  
_(Elizabeth Bennet) Twin sister to Jane. Was engaged to Marcellus Jerrard before the Revolution began, at which point he told her that he was only close to her in order to find the whereabouts of other French aristocrats.

_Jane Bennét (Gentry)  
_(Jane Bennet) Twin sister to Elizabeth; considered the beautiful twin.

_Paul Chauvelin (Citizen)  
_Member of the Committee of Public Safety; spearheads the efforts to capture the Scarlet Pimpernel. Formerly intimate friends with Armand St. Just and Marguerite Blakeney. Negotiates with Marguerite to save Armand in exchange for information of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

_Marcellus Jerrard (Citizen)  
_(George Wickham) Member of the Committee of Public Safety and cohort of Chauvelin. Is also on the hunt for the Scarlet Pimpernel and the members of that League. Is still in love with lady Elizabeth Bennét, a daughter of the French aristocracy.

_Marquis de Bennét (Gentry)  
_(Mr. Bennet) Father of the Bennét girls, member of the former French aristocracy. Escapes from prison with the help of Josephine Aldridge. Is led to Marseille by Armand St. Just.

_Mary Bennét (Gentry)  
_(Mary Bennet) Third daughter of the Bennét girls. Escapes from prison with the help of Josephine Aldridge. Is led to Marseille by Armand St. Just.

_Catherine Bennét (Gentry)  
_(Catherine "Kitty" Bennet) Fourth of the Bennét girls. Escapes from prison with the help of Josephine Aldridge. Is led to Marseille by Armand St. Just.

_Lydia Bennét (Gentry)  
_(Lydia Bennet) Fifth of the Bennét girls. Escapes from prison with the help of Josephine Aldridge. Is led to Marseille by Armand St. Just.

_Marquise de Bennét (Gentry)  
_(Mrs. Bennet) Wife of the Marquis, belovedmother of the Bennét girls; member of the former French aristocracy. Is murdered by Marcellus Jerrard.

_Augustin Robespierre (Citizen)  
_Younger brother to Maximilien Robespierre. Intimate friend of Napoleon Bonaparte.

_Maximilien Robespierre (Citizen)  
_Eventual head of the Committee of Public Safety; active member of the Jacobin party.Jean-Paul Marat (Citizen)  
Leader of the Jacobin party at the beginning of the Terror. Eventually assassinated by Charlotte Corday, a member of the Girondin party, and succeeded by Maximilien Robespierre.

_Napoleon Bonaparte (Military)  
_A native born Italian, he has recently recaptured the city of Toulon for the French, taking it city out of British possession. Is intimate friends with Augustin Robespierre.

**

* * *

British Gentry/Military**

_Georgiana Darcy  
_Sister to Fitzwilliam Darcy and cousin to Richard Fitzwilliam. Intimate friend to Josephine Aldridge at the time of her kidnapping. In love with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes

_Caroline Bingley  
_Publicly snobbish and cruel, secretly workd to help Georgiana in aiding the French. Engaged to Lord Anthony Dewhurst.

_Marianne Brandon  
_Wife to Col. Christopher Brandon. Intimate friend to Georgiana Darcy and Anne Wentworth.

_Marguerite Blakeney  
_Formerly Marguerite St. Just. French actress, married to Sir Percy Blakeney. Unintentionally sent a French family of the nobility to their deaths; becomes estranged with her husband upon his learning of it. Exchanges the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel for the promise of her brother's life and safety, unwittingly betraying her husband to his greatest enemy. Travels to France to warn her husband. Intimate friends with Josephine Aldridge from her school days.

_Anne Wentworth  
_Wife to Capt. Wentworth, intimate friend to Marianne Brandon and Georgiana Darcy. Lives aboard the Laconia with her husband.

_Col. Richard Fitzwilliam  
_Cousin to Fitzwilliam and Georgiana Darcy. Secretly engaged to Josephine Aldridge at the time of her kidnapping.

_Capt. Fredrick Wentworth  
_Husband to Anne Wentworth, friend to Col. Richard Fitzwilliam and Fitzwilliam Darcy. Personal acquaintance to Horatio Hornblower.

_Col. Christopher Brandon  
_Husband to Marianne Brandon, friend and mentor to Col. Richard Fitzwilliam.

**

* * *

League of the Scarlet Pimpernel**

_Sir Percy Blakeney  
_The legendary Scarlet Pimpernel, co-founder of the League. Husband to Marguerite Blakeney

_Fitzwilliam Darcy  
_Co-founder of the League. Is eventually charged with finding and rescuing the eldest two Bennét girls.

_Charles Bingley  
_Intimate friend of Fitzwilliam Darcy, brother to Caroline Bingley. Is charged with the initial finding and rescuing of the eldest two Bennét girls.

_Armand St. Just  
_Republican and brother to Marguerite Blakeney. Intimate friend of Sir Percy; former intimate friend of Paul Chauvelin. Leads three of the Bennét girls and their father to Marseille.

_Lord Anthony Dewhurst  
_English lord and friend of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. Engaged to Caroline Bingley.

_Sir Andrew Ffoulkes  
_Friend of Lord Anthony Dewhurst, in love with Georgiana Darcy. Is planning to request permission of Fitzwilliam Darcy to marry Georgiana.


	2. Prologue

**Prologue  
In Which Josephine is Stolen, Marguerite Meets Sir Percy, and the Bennéts Go into Hiding**

Secret engagements were all well and good in theory, but in practice, they were terribly difficult to maintain, not to mention rather vexatious. Josephine Aldridge was hardly a shy person by nature, being raised French and therefore having not the inhibitions that the English possessed, and thus this whole "secret engagement" business was hardly romantic in her eyes. She loved her fiancée dearly, more than anything, and if his word was to be trusted--which it was--he loved her as well; why should they not tell the world? Only her good Catholic faith (which she did her best to remain loyal to despite the English dislike of Catholics in general and her own countrymen's growing anger with the Church) and her love for her very English father kept her from demanding that they be married within the week.

Her faith told her that such things had to be entered calmly and sedately, with plenty of time for reflection. Divorce was a sin, and therefore marriage was not (despite what some practitioners seemed to believe, she thought with distaste) to be entered lightly.

As for her father, the inhibitions she herself _lacked _were ones her father _possessed _in spades. He would demand that proper decorum be followed to the letter, and she would do whatever he asked of her. Her mother, wretch that the woman was, Josephine would willingly and happily ignore; her father, however, was as dear to her as her fiancée, if such a thing were possible, and if he wanted her to wait for propriety's sake, then wait she would.

Not only this, but her beloved was also very English in his mannerisms, which meant that propriety was near and dear to his heart as well. Only an extreme love for both gentlemen kept Josephine from allowing her French heritage to take control and show her exasperation.

However, despite all of England's shortcomings, the country really had done her nothing but good. Here she had truly found happiness. She had friends that wouldn't betray her to the guillotine at a moment's notice. She had found a love that she had never believed possible. Executions were not celebrated affairs where spectators were happiest when the blood spurted them. People could, and did, trust each other. She was _happy _in England.

Depend on her blasted mother to ruin everything.

Settled in for the night with her book and favorite silk sleeping gown, Josephine was quite prepared not stir from her bed for at least ten good, solid hours. In fact, so absorbed was she that, despite her typically keen senses, she did not hear the slight disturbances coming from the lower floor of her father's home, Ravensgate by name.

When it seemed she could keep her eyes open no longer, Josephine sighed and regretfully shut her book. It crossed her mind, not for the first time, that she would get so very much more done in her life if she never needed to sleep. She had half a mind, in fact, to try it, though familiarity with such experiments kept her from more than passive thoughts. She set the book on the nearby nightstand and was prepared to blow out the candle when she realized that her typical evening tea, which was brought to her every evening before she went to sleep, had not come.

What an odd occurrence! The help was extremely reliable, and it was one of the few demands she ever really made. Having grown up in France, where the general unrest had grown great enough to render servitude of any sort a severe grievance that was highly frowned upon by the general populace, Josephine was used to doing things herself. As far as she was concerned, the help was more for good conversation than actual "help," and she was careful to keep her demands few and insubstantial.

Thinking to get the tea herself, she rose and donned her robe, carelessly exiting her rooms and meandering down the hall to the staircase. It was there that the heavy stillness of the house occurred to her. The hour was not so very late, and so some activity should have been discernible. The entire house, in fact, was entirely too dim to be considered normal, and she paused at the top of the steps.

Not even the night doorman was at his post. This was, indeed, cause for no little concern. Now more focused with finding her father's employees than getting her nightly tea, Josephine descended the steps as quietly as she could, hardly daring to breathe. Something was wrong, frightfully wrong, and she was beginning to wonder if perhaps venturing from her bed had been wise.

Her father was away on business, but her fiancée's cousin and her intimate friend's brother lived roughly eight miles from her father's estate--the Darcys owned roughly half of Derbyshire, and the Aldridges own the other half, and had for nearly a century. Ought she to send for him? No, she quickly decided. No need to disturb poor Mr. Darcy because she was feeling a bit skittish. More than likely there was nothing amiss, she reasoned, and there was no need to bother anyone.

Unless, of course, she didn't find any of the servants. Then, perhaps, she would send for help.

Her first thought, naturally, was to look in the kitchen, and so that was the direction she went, crossing the dining hall--for it was, truly, a hall, rather than a room; she rather thought she would have preferred a room--to cautiously enter the kitchen. At first, there was nothing, save for the same dimness which was all over the house. There was, however, a bit more light in the kitchen--the dying fire was serving its purpose even as it smoldered in mere embers. Josephine went over stoked the fire a bit, bringing it to a low flame. Now better able to see, she turned to inspect the kitchen.

It was odd, seeing it so empty. There was _always _someone in the kitchen. But that was just the problem--she had yet to see _anyone_, quite literally. More than a little nervous, she slowly picked the poker back up, holding it rather like she'd seen Richard, her fiancée, hold it while mock-dueling his cousin, the only difference being that she kept it pointed toward the grown. Nervously she peered around the room, slowly moving forward, half expecting someone to jump out and yell at her, as they would in a joke.

Then she saw the familiar form of one of the cooks, Burns by name, sitting in a chair at the small, square table, and sighed in relief. "Mr. Burns," she said to him, her words possessing a slight French accent, "you frightened me most severely!" She set down the poker and went to address him face to face. "I thought that everyone had been murdered or-"

She broke off in horror. Mr. Burns was staring out at the world with a look of pain and terror, and in his throat was a gaping wound. Blood drenched his front, running slowly down him to drip onto the floor. Her eyes, in some sort of transfixed horror, followed the rivulets to where they gathered on the stone floor, forming a puddle of no mean size.

A whimper emerged unbidden from her as she stumbled back in terror, feeling vaguely ill. "Mr. Whitmore!" she cried desperately, praying the old butler would hear. "Someone! _Anyone_! Mr. Burns-"

One of the nearby shadows moved, stepping into the dim light, and she let out a low scream. "They won't 'ear you, mam'zelle," he said in a menacing growl. "Their fates were similar."

She backed away as he advanced, too horrified for words. One of her hands hit something--a pot left from dinner. Without thinking, she seized it and hurled it at the man, then turned and fled.

There was a furious roar from behind her as she bashed through the kitchen door. There was another yell, and she realized that she had hit someone as she emerged from the kitchen. She skidded to a halt, thinking that someone had heard her cries, only to have a dirty hand grab at her nightgown.

Josephine shrieked, lashed out with her foot, then ran when she was released. "She's gone for the entry way!" a voice yelled, and there was a response from somewhere ahead of her. What was said, she couldn't tell, but she quickly changed directions, heading for the servants' stair that was hidden behind a panel that was just beside a display cabinet.

She forced herself to think as she raced up the stairs. _There can only be so many of them_, she thought desperately as she emerged in an upstairs corridor. She slid the paneling shut behind her_. They could never fit a whole army in this house, or whatever organization they brought. I simply have to out maneuver them and get to the stables. From there I may escape to Pemberly and the protection of Richard's cousins. I must get to the stables._

Her heart was pounding furiously, and she was shaking so badly that she could hardly stand. Her breathing was labored, and yet her chest was so tight that she was nearly suffocating. _Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy name._

She crept to the edge of the staircase and peered down. One of them was searching behind the curtains--stupid man, how on earth could she have gotten there without being seen--and another was heading directly for the stairs.

Josephine barely managed to stifle a scream as he began his ascent, and she tucked herself away in the shadows, squeezing her eyes shut and holding her breath even as she thought her lungs might burst. _Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven._

The footsteps approached, but did not pause, or even hesitate. In fact, by some miracle, they continued on past without concern. Josephine opened her eyes, hardly daring to believe it possible. But, there he was, continuing down the hall in his search for her. Now for a way to make her own escape.

Her eyes found the door to a guest room, in which she knew there was another hidden staircase for the servants. She knew, in her heart of hearts, that she had no choice but to gain access to that staircase. It was her only means of escape. And yet her couldn't seem to get her muscles to work. She was frozen, paralyzed with fear in her pathetic hiding place.

_Move Josephine_, she thought. _Move. You must move. Now. NOW!_

As quickly and silently as she could, she stole across the hall and grabbed the door handle--locked! She barely managed to suppress the scream of terror and frustration, but somehow did, whirling about to find another door.

"There! At the door!" a gruff voice yelled, and she raced across the hall to another door. _Please open, please open…_

Success! She hurled herself into the room and, seemingly in the same movement, slammed it shut and locked it behind her. It was another guest room--the same room, in fact, that Richard had slept in when a violent storm had rendered him unable to return to Pemberly not three weeks before. The knowledge that her fiancée, a Colonel in the British army and completely dauntless, had been in that very room not all that very long ago gave her a strange sort of hope, and she quickly made for the entrance to the servants' stair as her pursuers began their assault on the door.

She found the paneling, slid it open, then replaced it all as quickly as she could, then descended the stairs with both haste and care--her efforts would be wholly fruitless if they heard her. _Give us this day our daily Bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…_

At the bottom of the steps she pressed her ear against the paneling, and was met with complete silence. After another moment's listening, she gently slid the panel open and stepped into, to her horror, the kitchen_. … and lead us not into temptation…_

She stepped into that dreaded room, terrified that she would espy the brutally murdered Mr. Burns, and quickly made her way back into the dining hall, the doors having been left open in the pursuit. She crept to the grand double doors at the end of the hall, which opened into the sitting where they received guests. But even as her hand touched the handle, it was pushed open, and only a strength of will she hadn't known she possessed kept her from shrieking as she hid behind the door. _… but deliver us from-_

The door was suddenly ripped away, exposing her in full, and she screamed as rough hands seized her and dragged her forward. She struggled fiercely as the men hauled her into the sitting room, but it was in vain. They dragged her along to the entry, then threw her to the ground in the center, and she was quickly circled by roughly a dozen men, all of whom looked capable of brutal murder.

There were tears streaming down her face now, a mixture of terror, grief, and despair. At that moment, a figure entered the circle which she thought she would never be happy to see.

"Mother!" she cried as relief flooded her. "Mother, thank God. Please, help me!"

"That is what I am here to do," she replied coldly in French.

Josephine made to question her, but the woman snapped her fingers, and suddenly the men set upon her, dragging her struggling form from the house. She was drug down the steps and flung into a carriage, where she threw herself at the door, to no avail. Defeated, she dissolved into tears.

* * *

The performance had, quite clearly, been a success. Marguerite St. Just felt quite justified in her elated mood--no actress in the world would have felt otherwise. Dressed in a silk dinner gown that would have suited any of the French aristocracy--which, in practice, no longer existed, all titles of nobility having recently been abolished--she emerged in the grand foyer of the Comédie Française to greet her adoring public. 

The crowds that instantly swarmed her were of naught but foolish admirers infatuated with a pretty face and a reputation for being the cleverest woman in France. She had not earned this reputation for nothing, and so saw through the airs and pretensions as if they did not exist. In truth, despite her apparently enraptured countenance, she was frightfully bored by the entire affair. What was the point of even showing herself? She would much rather have invited her friends--the few truly intelligent people she knew--into her salon and spent her time there, rather than facing the fops who merely wanted a trophy to hang on their arm.

"My dearest Marguerite!" the manager, Monsieur Reynard, cried suddenly, pushing his way through the crowd to grab her hand. "There is a man here, an Englishman, who wishes to meet the famed Marguerite St. Just, if you will allow it."

Just as she would have on stage, she played for her audience, holding up her hands in a questioning manner and inquiring, "Do you believe this man to be worth departing from my dear companions here?"

Those surrounding her laughed as M. Reynard replied, "I believe he his, my dear, I believe he is. Come," he took her hand and gently pulled her forward. He was heading towards a tall man--a _very _tall man--who was more than a little striking. In fact, it was entirely safe to say that he was devastatingly attractive, an idea which caused her insides to give a little squirm of anticipation. He was a very large man, the very image of protectiveness. And yet he still looked completely at ease, gazing about the room with an almost bored expression. Then his eye lit upon her, and suddenly he looked much less bored. He presented her with his full attention, reaching out a hand as she approached.

Slightly overwhelmed by this tall Englishman, she slid her hand into his without hesitation, and he kissed it gallantly. Dimly she realized that her manager was speaking.

"Marguerite, this is Sir Percy Blakeney, one of the most influential men in England. Sir Percy, this is Marguerite St. Just, our star and the cleverest and most beautiful woman in France," M. Reynard said grandly.

"Very pleased to make the acquaintance of so striking a lady," Sir Percy Blakeney drawled. "Your titles suit you, Mademoiselle."

Marguerite found herself smiling at him despite herself. "The sentiment it returned, I assure you," she said in slightly accented English. "I pray that your stay here will be enjoyable."

"If enjoyment is your hope," he replied in that same drawl, "then you may safely assume that I am already fulfilling it, thanks to you."

This man was different from the others. He meant what he said--every word. He wasn't simply spouting off pretty phrases in the hopes of gaining her friendship. His sincerity was genuine and refreshing. Not only this, though; there was… something. Something about him

* * *

It was, perhaps, the most difficult thing the Marquis de Bennét had ever done, telling his daughters that they would be forced to leave behind everything they'd ever known in order to simply stay free. Members of the aristocracy, no matter how generous they were with their wealth, were being arrested on weak and fraudulent charges, and the very last thing he wanted for his daughters was imprisonment. And so it was with a heavy heart that he called his two oldest daughters, the twins Elizabeth and Jane, into his study. 

Though they were twins, the two girls looked remarkably different. Jane was a pale beauty, with curls that looked elegant no matter their state and blue eyes that entranced even the hardest of hearts. She was tall and willowy, and routinely was on the receiving end of impassioned (and impromptu) proposals. Elizabeth, on the other hand, and dark hair, nearly black, that fell in gentle waves rather than luxurious curls. Her eyes were a glittering hazel, and she was shorter than her sister by half a foot. She was, however, very beautiful in her own right, or so her father believed. She was also the cleverest of all his children and therefore his favorite.

Though, he had to admit, he didn't really believe that a father was supposed to have a favorite.

Both girls--young women, really--came and knelt on either side of him, each of them gripping one of his hands. How dear they were to him! It pained him to think of his two dearest girls wearing their worst gowns daily, simply to please a lot of lunatic fools who couldn't see that not all of the rich were bad people.

"I am very much afraid, my dear ones," he said after a long moment's hesitation, "that our lives are going to change, and they will get much worse before they get better."

* * *


	3. Chapter One

**Author's Note**: I forgot to mention, I've changed the location of Derbyshire county altogether--I told you this would be extreme AU! Derbyshire, and Pemberly, are now much nearer the southern coast of England, perhaps a mile from the sea. It's important to note that Derbyshire county (in this universe) is directly from a port town in France called Calaise. This makes the boat trip over the Channel only about 30 minutes long. Matlock (the Fitzwilliam estate) is in the county just north of Derbyshire's new location.

Also, it's entirely possible that the cast could be updated at any point during the story. If I change it in any way, I'll post a notice with the next chapter.

**Author's Apology**: I suck at action sequences--part of the reason I'm writing this fic, lol, is to practice. So please bear with me. I apologize ahead of time.

**

* * *

Chapter One  
In Which the Bennéts are Separated and Georgiana is Informed**

June 13, 1799  
_Somewhere outside Marseille. France_

Until then, sitting in a condemned meeting room in a decrepit manor (and only as comfortable as broken furniture of at least twenty years old could afford), Elizabeth had believed herself to be living in fear. After all, it was only through her father's good sense and the whim of fate that her family had not been imprisoned by the Committee of Public Safety. Though the book she was reading was a particular favorite, Lizzy had lost her avid interest--she snapped the book shut.

"Committee of Public Safety, indeed," she said bitterly to herself. "How much of the public is truly safer thanks to their efforts? Very little, I should imagine! One is more likely to be killed than protected by _this _committee."

Angry enough to feel vaguely ill, Lizzy stood and, after picking up the stubby candle, made her way across the room. The roof of this particular room kept out a great deal of light, but let in an equally great deal of rain. She kept to the dry portions of the room as she stepped delicately around broken and dusty furniture. The old--perhaps even ancient--manor was in such a state of disrepair that the idea of anyone, or any_thing_, inhabiting it amazed her.

Still, she was hardly going to complain. Her family was still together and whole, unlike many families across France, and for that she was unceasingly grateful. Lizzy pushed open the door and entered the main hall.

This room, unlike the one she as just quitted, had a vaguely snug feel about it. A large heart in each end of the hall, in which equally large fires were blazing, both lit and warmed the hall, and the furniture was whole, in general, and useable. In fact, the west wing of the abandoned manor was largely intact, if not precisely luxurious. Having lived in the manor for the past year, the Bennéts had become quite adept at practicality and making the best of what they had. Only the east wing, a room of which Lizzy had only just left, was capable of being called condemned.

Lizzy blew out the candle--they were extremely difficult to come by--in order to preserve their stores and set it and the book down on the table. Her mind drifted back to the recent execution--_murder_--of the King. It was true, Louis had not been the wisest of men, but to resort to _murder_? If the rumors were true, then Jean-Paul Marat had established himself as head of the Committee before the King's body was even taken away from the guillotine. She had heard of this Marat and his radical views.

For all their learned practicality, she feared that the family Bennét would be dead within a fortnight.

"Lizzy," a voice called, and she looked up to see her twin sister standing in the doorway. Jane was clearly disturbed: her posture was stiff, and her eyes were slightly wider than what could be considered normal. Elizabeth was immediately on her guard.

"What is it?" she asked, gripping a nearby chair rather tightly.

"There is someone here to see you. He is waiting in father's study."

With a jolt of dread, Elizabeth numbly followed her sister out of the hall, across the foyer, and to the study. Just before they reached the door, Lizzy turned to her sister. "Is my guest a friend?"

Jane paused, considering this for a moment. "He once was," she said finally. "But has not been so for quite some time. Perhaps a year."

It _couldn't _be… Surely not even he would be so bold? She glanced at the door, then said lowly, "Keep everyone gathered in once place. Nearby. With their things."

Jane nodded firmly in agreement. "I had already planned it," she assured her sister.

Lizzy squeezed her sister's hand before going to the door and, after drawing in a deep breath, pushing it open. At first she saw no one, and with a frown she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. Then she saw him, standing near the hearth, and her eyes narrowed.

"Marcellus," she said distastefully. "What do you want? You have no reason to darken my doorstep anymore."

Marcellus Jerrard was a handsome man, attractive in a dangerous way. With dark eyes, darker hair, and a grin that could make the coldest woman melt where she stood, she had once been one of the many girls completely smitten with him. However, in a surprising turn of events, it wasn't long before he was completely in love with her. Then, however, the revolution began, and he avowed that he would die before marrying a daughter of the aristocracy. To add insult to injury, he stated at the same time that he had only involved himself with her in order to move closer to the "traitors of the people," so as to better position himself for turning such traitors in to the Committee.

"Is that any way to greet a former love, _ma chéri_?" he inquired, grinning at her winningly.

"Note the operative use of the word 'former,' monsieur," she retorted icily. "_What do you want_?"

To Elizabeth's great surprise, Marcellus ceased his games and said straightforwardly, "I have a proposition for you."

Her insides turned to lead and ice all at once; he had uttered remarkably similar words when he proposed. "My answer is no," she said categorically.

"You make your answer so hastily, citoyenne," he commented, clearly amused, watching her in a manner that was not unlike an ornery cat toying with a mouse. "You have yet to hear my offer."

It was then that Elizabeth realized the name of the anonymous emotion she'd been subject to for the past several moments: fear. The comprehension astounded her at the first, but then she realized that she had every reason to fear this man. Marcellus Jerrard would, without a thought to plague him, toss her to the wolves of the Committee--and their deadly jaws, the ever-ready guillotine--and would do worse to her family. His presence was, essentially, the kiss of death to her family; he represented the hordes of angry French citizens that were leading innocents to their deaths all over the country, and the thought frightened her more than she would willingly admit.

When she acknowledged this fear, it seemed to open the floodgates, and she was nearly swamped by it. However, anger tempered the fear, for in truth, she was more angry with this man than afraid of him, and for many of the very reasons that caused her fear. This man had not simply slighted her--he was a murderer, working the name of liberty.

"You can have no proposal, monsieur, that I could be induced to accept," she said informed him with cold deliberation. "You call me 'citoyenne,' yet I am of the loathed aristocracy. Have your loyalties shifted, Monsieur Jerrard?"

His expression was inscrutable as he stood and walked purposefully toward her. Elizabeth refused to move, standing straight and proud--if she was to die for what her name was, and for what her peers had done, then she would confront her fate bravely.

"I can help you, Elizabeth," he said lowly. "I can keep you from meeting the same end as the traitors that plague our country, but you must help me in return."

"I can offer no service that would be of use to you, or the Republic," she informed him in a hard voice, her tone very near to mocking when she spoke of the… _animals_… that he represented, which her countrymen had become.

"On the contrary, my dearest Elizabeth," he said, now standing behind her and very close. "Give me the names and whereabouts of the _sacrés aristos_, and I will save you, _ma chéri_."

"I _am _one of those _sacrés aristos_, Marcellus," she cried incredulously.

"No…" He lifted a hand and laid it at the crook of her neck, gently stroking the hair that draped over her shoulders. "No, you cannot be one of them. How else could I have loved you, Eliza? How else could I still feel as I do?"

Feeling sick with disgust, she turned her head to look at him, struggling to hide at least the majority of her anger and revulsion. "That time has been long past, Monsieur Jerrard," she said coldly. "I was a silly young girl, in love with an idea, not a man."

His expression, one moment ardent and almost hopeful, was utterly flat the next. "Don't be a fool, Elizabeth," he said abruptly. "You don't realize what the Committee is planning. Our country has enemies, Mademoiselle Bennét, within and without, and soon, we will purge France of her foes."

"The only enemies of France I see," she retorted heatedly, "are the fools who believe that this never-ending massacre is the way to attain liberty!"

Abruptly he reached out and seized her, hauling her forward until she was pressed against him tightly. "Give me the information I seek and I will spare you," he snarled.

"And what of my family?" she spat. "You profess undying love, yet give me an ultimatum? Do your motivations serve anyone's purposes other than your own?"

As equally abruptly as he had taken hold of her, he thrust her away, and Elizabeth stumbled into the desk. A glass fell off and shattered on the floor, but she was too enraged to care.

"I confess!" Marcellus announced furiously. "I came here in the hopes of gaining your allegiance. You were mine once, and I have every intention of making you thus again. I have no care for your family. Even now, there are men awaiting my orders. Make your choice, Elizabeth. But whatever you decide, Madame la Guillotine awaits your family!"

She never paused to think; Elizabeth grabbed up a book, lying open on the desk, and struck him over the head with it so violently that the blow sent him pitching to the floor. She raced past him and to the door, slamming it shut behind her.

"Lizzy!" Jane cried worriedly, seeing her sister's angry and distraught countenance. "What has happened?"

"We must go," she said tersely. "_Now_. Marcellus has men waiting to arrest all of us. Everyone, please…"

Her father, looking grimmer than she had yet to see him, lead their family towards the back entrance as Elizabeth grabbed up the plain brown rucksack that Jane had brought from the room they shared. Her parents and sisters already had their packs, and so no time was lost as they filed down the narrow corridor. _To the orchard_, she thought, knowing her father was thinking the same. _If we can make it to the orchard, we can escape them._

Unfortunately, the orchard was well-nigh a mile distant from the condemned manor.

Desperately attempting to ignore this, Elizabeth ushered her sisters and father past her into the dark outdoors. The rain had paused, which was both a blessing and a curse: they would not be nearly so cold, but the rain would not be there to wash away their footprints. Just before she stepped outside, her mother paused and gripped Elizabeth's hand tightly.

"He offered you life?" she asked enigmatically.

"He offered me emptiness, Maman," she amended with a slightly forced smile, "not life."

"My Lisbet," her mother sighed, "surrendering all in the hopes for nothing. Think of how many lives you may have saved."

"I can hardly-"

The door to the study burst open explosively, and Elizabeth gasped, instinctively recoiling. "Run, Maman," she muttered urgently. Marcellus skidded out of the room and, by a mere unhappy chance, happened to glance down the narrow corridor to see them make their escape. Elizabeth pushed her mother out the door before another detail could be absorbed, and the two of them fled out into the overgrown lawn, where their family waited.

"We were seen," Elizabeth said, and suddenly they heard shouts, which not even a timely crash of thunder could mask.

"_Go!_" her father cried.

A sudden thrill of panic gripped her, and she would not have moved if not for her sister's hand grabbing her own. Elizabeth looked down at their hands, looked back at Jane, and thought, _He will kill us all._

The thought of her family being lead to the guillotine, which was surely what would befall them, was enough set her to moving. Without warning, she began running at a dead sprint, setting her course to the stagnant field directly behind the manor and, beyond that, the overgrown orchard that could afford her family relatively safety… if they could reach _it _before Marcellus and his men reached _them_.

The heavens chose that moment to set loose a second torrent, and soon all Elizabeth could hear were the men tracking them, the storm, and her own labored breathing. They entered the field, a sea of weeds and brambles, the tallest of which were level with Elizabeth's shoulders. She clung tightly to Jane's hand as they ran, half-expecting one of Marcellus' agents to catch up and take hold of one or both of them. It was a struggle to run through the overrun field, and soon her lungs began to burn as her legs began to ache. Elizabeth wondered faintly if she could collapse and be taken despite her best efforts.

They were halfway through the field. _Nearly there, nearly there… _she thought to herself, her gaze fixed on the orchard and the hope of safety. Suddenly one of the figures ahead of them fell, and a second figure tripped and fell over them. Elizabeth and Jane both, seemingly at once, struggled to run faster as the three figures ahead of them that were still on their feet stumbled to a half and went to help the fallen.

Elizabeth was afraid that she'd fall into them, but somehow she managed to skid to a halt just before. Suddenly she heard gunfire, and Lydia screamed. Catherine and Mary, the two that had fallen, were pulled to their feet, and Elizabeth cried, "To the orchard! Quickly!"

The three younger sisters and their parents all began to run, and even as Elizabeth and Jane made to join them, shots rang out once more, and Jane gave a pained cry.

"JANE!" Lizzy shrieked, filled with nothing short of terror, as her sister fell into her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her family stop, and she yelled at them, "Keep running, you fools!"

After a slight hesitation, one of the five began running back toward where Lizzy struggled to support her sister, while the rest resumed their flight to the orchard. "What is it?" she asked her sister. "What's wrong?"

"My arm, only," Jane replied in a terse voice. There was another shot, and Elizabeth flung both herself and her sister to the ground. Jane gave a sharp cry at the impact--for it was her wounded shoulder that hit the ground first--and swoon from the pain.

"_Jane_," Elizabeth hissed, panic beginning to blur her thinking. She could hear the men behind her, shouting and they charged after them through the weeds. "Jane, please, we have to run."

There was a great deal of crashing through the weeds, and before Elizabeth could react, her mother appeared, looking tight and drawn, falling to her knees beside her two daughters.

"Jane's wounded," Lizzy supplied instantly. "She's unconscious." A sense of hopelessness settled over the young woman as she gazed down on her twin. _We will be caught_, she thought, her eyes burning. _We will be caught, and we will be sent to the guillotine._

"Take care of them all for me?" her mother asked suddenly, and Elizabeth looked up at her in surprise.

"What?"

"Take care of them," the Marquise repeated firmly. "Get out of France, and take care of them. Now, promise me you will not make a sound, not matter what transpires."

"Maman-"

"_Promise me_!" the woman hissed urgently, her grip almost painful on her daughter's arm.

Elizabeth was at a loss. If her mother was swearing her to silence, surely it meant that the woman had something dangerous, even fatal, planned? But what else was there to do but to follow her mothers orders? She looked down at Jane, thought of her beautiful and beloved twin being murdered in the name of liberty, and nodded to her mother.

"I promise," Elizabeth said hesitantly, and her mother looked satisfied. The Marquise touched Jane's arm, kissed Elizabeth's forehead, then murmured, "Please tell you father and sisters how much I love them."

Elizabeth gasped and reached out to restrain her mother, but she had acted to slowly: the Marquise had already leaped to her feet and was running directly for their pursuers.

"You killed them! You killed my darlings!" the woman shrieked. Lizzy bit her lip to suppress the tears as she crawled forward in order to better see what was happening.

"They can't all be dead," she heard Marcellus said disgustedly. She strained to see where he was, but the weeds were thick, and she didn't dare raise herself high enough to be seen.

"My youngest have disappeared, but my eldest-" her mother broke off in a sob, and Elizabeth realized, for the first time, just how truly great an actress her mother must have been to have made her way in the French court. "You killed them. My Jane and Lizzy, they are both dead!"

There was a strange, very tense pause, and a strangled voice said, "Elizabeth is dead?"

"Dead!" the Marquise cried in anguish. "My only consolation is that she is free from nefarious creatures like _you_!"

Suddenly, Elizabeth realized that the strangled voice had belonged to Marcellus. Just what had caused his strange tone? Had he been truthful about his lingering regard for her? Or simply disappointed to have two less victims for Madame la Guillotine?

There was a sound she could not identify, rather like a heavy object hitting… something… and a sharp cry. Elizabeth raised herself ever so slightly, finding herself a slightly clearer place to look through; she could now see both Marcellus and her mother.

Her mother was on the ground, her hand to her head, as Marcellus stood over her. Elizabeth shivered: she had never seen him so angry in her life, and the sight was a fairly frightening one. As she watched, he reached out and took a pistol from one of the men standing nearby him.

"Who shot at them?" he demanded, but received no response, which only angered him further. "WHO?"

A man stepped forward, almost into Elizabeth's area of sight. "I did, sir."

"Stupid." And quite suddenly, Marcellus raised the pistol he had taken and shot the man without hesitation.

Elizabeth clapped her hand over her mouth, barely stifling a scream. Marcellus tossed that pistol to the ground, then pulled out his own. "You, Marquise," he said, "should thank me. Now you will not have to witness the execution of your own children for your treason."

Marcellus raised the gun, and Elizabeth threw herself to the ground as the shot was fired.

* * *

Pemberly Estate. Derbyshire, England.

Georgiana Darcy was not, by any stretch of the imagination, an unintelligent young woman. Having been raised by Fitzwilliam Darcy and Richard Fitzwilliam, it seemed that she made better company for men than for her own sex. Perhaps this should have disturbed her more than it did, but it didn't; she was more than happy to continue her life as it was, associating with those who knew and loved her (most of whom, it had to be admitted, were male) rather than actually moving in society.

She sighed and stood, moving to stare out the window. The day was bright and clear, and thanks to Pemberly's position atop one of the rolling hills, she could see the sea from that window. Had her brother yet returned from France? She had absolutely no way of knowing, and felt useless because of it. The secret rooms they had for the aristocratic refugees had been prepared for a day, giving Georgiana one less thing to occupy her time with.

She turned abruptly, her eyes instantly landing on the seated figure of her cousin, who was nearly as dear to her as her brother. He was reading, the wire-rimmed glasses he used for such activities perched on his nose. It was almost a comical sight, a cavalryman reading with a small pair of spectacles balanced on his nose, but she knew full well that he only needed them for reading; strangely, he could see better than young men half his age, unless he was reading. She often used it to tease him, and he would always tell her, "Someday, most radiant cousin, I will need such cumbersome things all of the time, and then what will you say?"

"Do you think the unrest in France will have any affect on us?" she asked him.

Richard's eyes remained fixed on the page as he replied, "I believe it already has, or am I much mistaken?"

Georgiana sighed, moving to sit across from him, her hands clutching each other in her lap. "That isn't-"

"I know." With a sigh that spoke of more than mere remorse at quitting his book, Richard closed the volume and removed his spectacles. "You know that the French King and his family attempted to escape the country not long ago and were captured in the endeavor. From what I understand, however, Louis had recently been sent to visit Madame la Guillotine. Which, I am afraid to add, is being put to use more frequently than before, if you can believe it. Wealthy families, not just aristocrats, are terrified out of their wits that they will be accused of crimes against the republic."

Georgiana looked away, towards the southern window and France. "And fools like the Pimpernel are his cohorts are plunging into the fray as often as they can."

She had reason to worry: Fitzwilliam Darcy was a proud man, but a noble one. The execution of the French King would only serve, to him, as a perverse sort of call to action; his efforts in rescuing the French aristocracy would only be stoked by the inflamed violence. Her brother, however, was not the only one who caused her to worry. It would be best, however, not to voice that concern: Richard had yet to discover her relationship with Sir Andrew, and perhaps it would be to everyone's advantage to wait. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was, quite possibly, even more protective than her own brother, if such a thing were possible.

Richard didn't respond immediately to her statement, more than likely because he saw the truth of it as well as she did, and she stood and moved back toward the window. "Your brother knows full well how to go about his pursuits and enterprises, Georgiana," he assured her then.

"And the French know full well how to operate a guillotine," she said, almost bitterly, resting her hands on the windowsill. "Lord knows they've had a great deal of practice at it."

She pressed her hand against the glass, rather fancying that she could summon her brother home with merely her thoughts. Richard came up from behind her to stand by her side at the window, surveying the distant sea as she did. "If it's of any comfort, we both know that your brother is entirely capable of sending any of those frog-eaters running to their mamas with one shot of that glare of his, which I still say he inherited from Aunt Catherine-"

Georgiana giggled at this; indeed, Fitzwilliam Darcy had a glare that could shrivel the healthiest plants within an instant, if he so chose to bestow it.

"And, I must confess," he continued, "I rather wish I was there myself."

He had spoken so nonchalantly that she nearly missed the gravity in his expression as he stared at the sea. She knew what he was referring to, of course; anyone who truly knew Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam would have realized it. The memory was as painful to her as it was to him, but just the same…

"It was over a year ago, Richard," she said softly, gazing at him with concern.

"A year two months back," he said flippantly. There was no emotion to his words nor his expression.

"We have no way of knowing if she even survived the robbery," she said, almost desperately. Georgiana had had a very difficult time overcoming the disappearance of her dear friend, Josephine Aldridge. It was widely believed that she--as well as every servant in the house at the time--had been the prey of thieves. All of the victims had been located except for Josephine; not even a body had been found. She had simply disappeared, and the thieves were never apprehended. The lack of any conclusive evidence had ensured that true closure would never be accomplished; it was entirely likely that Georgiana and her cousin would never know what had befallen their dear friend.

As difficult, however, as it had been for Georgiana to bear the loss and the circumstances surrounding it, Richard seemed to have suffered even further. It worried her: Even a year after the incident, her cousin still seemed to be under the weight of an intense grief. Not for the first time, she wondered if perhaps their relationship had run deeper than anyone had suspected.

"I realize that," he said, a vague note of impatience to his tone. He turned and stalked back toward center of the room. Georgiana watched him, more than a little concerned at his behavior. "I realize many things that most don't expect me to realize. And yet-"

He stopped abruptly. For her own part, Georgiana felt rather like someone had ripped a bandage off a half-healed wound. Even Josephine's father, Sir John Aldridge, had accepted the inexorable truth: Josephine Elaine Nicolette Aldridge was gone. Not lost, but _gone_. When Mr. Aldridge had quitted the search efforts three months ago, eight after the disappearance, it had been relatively easier for Georgiana to accept the fact that her friend simply wasn't going to return home. Richard, however, had never accepted such truths, and when Mr. Aldridge called off the search, the Colonel had taken up his own. In truth, Richard's search was much less grand, as he had not the means or connections that Mr. Aldridge had, but it was, nevertheless, a search.

"I know she's alive, Georgiana. Whoever might have taken her would want to keep her alive," he said with conviction.

_Stop this, Richard! _she wanted to cry. _Stop! _Instead, she simply sank into a nearby chair--the most uncomfortable seat in the room, for which reason it had been pushed near the window, out of the way--watching her cousin with a mixture of sympathy, anguish, and aggrieved exasperation. "Why would thieves wish to keep the daughter of one of the most influential men in England alive a year after they took her? For that matter, if they intended to keep her alive, why did they not demand ransom?" she demanded. "Think sensibly, Richard!"

"They weren't thieves," he said abruptly, beginning to pace, as he often did when frustrated, and always did when this particular subject was raised.

"What?" she cried. "Not thieves? But everyone was told-"

"We suspected thieves," he interrupted. "But nothing was stolen from the estate. Not even the silver."

Georgiana didn't speak as she absorbed this newfound information. Nothing taken? Then why would the intruders invade Ravensgate if not to loot? Why else would they have killed all of the servants? Unless, of course, their intentions had been unrelated to material valuables…

"Then who could it have been?" she demanded, wanting only to end the painful conversation and forget its implications. "Did the French steal her away?"

The look he gave her was one that rendered her immovable. "In truth," he said slowly, "I have reason to believe that is precisely who took her."

Georgiana opened her mouth to ask still more questions when, unfortunately for her, the door to the sitting room was opened, and her brother, looking rather worse for wear, entered the room with as much dignity as his exhausted form could muster.

"Fitzwilliam!" she cried, leaping from her seat. He gave her a fleeting smile as he closed the door behind him. The look of his face stilled her when she would have gone to him.

"Darcy, you look terrible," Richard said bluntly, a look of concern on his face. One could hardly tell that not a moment before he'd been nearly beside himself with frustration and grief. "Sit down, man, before you fall down."

"I came as swiftly as I could manage," he said, waving his cousin's words away. "I bring news from France."

Georgiana drew upon her reserves of sensibility and protective instinct, going over to grip Darcy's arm and tow him over to a seat. "What news do you bring us?" she inquired soothingly, guiding him to a chair and gently pushing him into it.

"Three days ago," he said, "the Jacobins took control of the Committee of Public Safety."

Richard gave a grim, terse sigh and went over to stand near a window, once again staring towards the south. "How many of the Girondins are dead?" he asked darkly. "No true Jacobin will risk being usurped once he has taken control."

"Thirty-one of them were arrested just before the Jacobins took control," Fitzwilliam said grimly. This seemed to be something of significance, as Richard muttered something under his breath--most likely a few rather colorful curses--and turned away from the window, resuming his pacing.

Georgiana, however, was at a loss. She knew very little of Jacobins and Girondins; only that the Jacobins had the support of the Parisians, where as the others did not. Seeing her confused frown, Fitzwilliam explained: "La Gironde and La Montagne are both political parties in France. Girondins are widely viewed as the conservative party, as they are largely theorists and idealists. La Montagne is currently under the sway of the Jacobins, who are more radical and prone to action. That is, Girondins think without acting, and Jacobins act without thinking."

"Which then translates," Richard added, "to Girondins being more open to influence. In truth, the goals of both parties are exactly the same-"

"-and the true difference is merely in temperament."

"How they go about reaching those goals?" Georgiana suggested, beginning to comprehend.

"Precisely," Richard said, flashing her a rather forced grin. It quickly fell as he look to Fitzwilliam. "Who is in control?"

"At the moment, Jean-Paul Marat holds the greatest influence," was the reply, to which Richard muttered another short string of curses and resumed his pacing.

"Jean-Paul Marat?"

"A radical, even for a Jacobin," Fitzwilliam explained. "He was one of the men behind the September Massacres last year, and is known to frequently write the death lists from which many are executed."

"And so the French have finally find a leader as mad as the rest of them," Richard added with grim humor, bracing his hands on the back of a chair as he faced his cousins. "Reassuring to know that a lunatic is managing the asylum. Rather like the blind leading the lame, I dare say."

"Is anyone safe in France now?" Georgiana asked, thinking of her English friends who at times ventured into France. None of them were remotely related to the republic or the former aristocracy. Did this mean that they were in danger despite the lack of connection?

"No," Fitzwilliam answered. "No one. Jacobins are a suspicious lot, and I doubt they will pause to consider their actions before they send their suspects to the guillotine. All efforts of getting the gentry out of France must be augmented ten-fold."

_No! _she thought, horrified. _You can't return to that awful place!_

"And Britain must make some sort of response," Richard added, heading for the door. Brother and sister both turned to look at him as he marched purposefully toward the exit.

"What will the government do?" Georgiana called, bringing her cousin to a stop. Truth be told, she wished for Richard to leave as much as she wished it for Fitzwilliam; that is, none at all.

"I can't say for certain," Richard said, his hand on the door handle. "But there isn't a chance that we'll merely sit, fat and comfortable, when France has just handed the reigns to the radicals amid wild cheers. A call to arms, at least."

Fitzwilliam nodded agreement. "Good luck," he offered.

Richard returned the nod and replied, "God speed." He nodded then to Georgiana, and left.

She wondered, with a sense of growing doom, if France would pull the entire world into ruin.

* * *

**_Very_** special thanks to: 

Jena: I'm glad you like it so far; here's the next bit!

Bhavana: Lol, to tell you the truth, I'm glad that someone does feel for Josephine! I was afraid that since she's an original character, no one would care about her.

percyismine: A girl after my own heart! I hope I don't disappoint!


	4. Chapter Two

Author's Note: Anyone who has read _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ will find the conversation between Percy and Marguerite very, very familiar--I've taken it pretty much directly from the book. I've done that for the benefit of those who haven't read TSP yet. After all, we who've read it know what happens; the other don't. And I did say that no knowledge of the book would be required.

* * *

Chapter Two  
In Which Marguerite Confronts Percy and Caroline Confronts Charles.

Morning of July 14, 1799  
_Richmond Estate. England._

There he stood, a beautiful figure in the moonlight of early morning. Marguerite felt a vague pang as she observed him, feeling yet again the divide that stood between them. She had never, at any point in her life, intended for the St. Cyr family to die--if he had loved her so deeply, as he had sworn he had, how could he have lost all affection for her so quickly?

Even as she stared at him, it seemed he did not notice her; he turned and moved directly towards the terrace. Though she had no memory of giving her mouth consent to utter a sound, Marguerite found herself calling out, "Sir Percy!"

He had nearly began mounting the steps, but halted and, after a pause, turned to look into the shadows which had called to him. Half fearing that he would continue on, she stepped forward quickly; as soon as he caught sight of his pursuer, Percy immediately bowed to her with the typical gallantry he always regarded her with. Even so, however, his foot remained on the first step, and he displayed every indication of wishing to go.

"At your service, Madame!"

It was a painful thing, she decided, to be treated so indifferently by one's own husband. Only barely managing to smother the desperation she felt welling within her, she said, "The air is deliciously cool, the moonlight peaceful and poetic, and the garden inviting. Will you not stay in it awhile; the hour is not yet late, or is my company so distasteful to you that you are in a hurry to rid yourself of it?"

"Nay, Madame, but 'tis the other foot the shoe happens to be, and I'll warrant you'll find the midnight air more poetic without my company: no doubt the sooner I remove the obstruction the better you ladyship will like it."

Marguerite felt rather as if she had received a physical blow as he turned to leave, but pressed on. "I protest you mistake me, Sir Percy," she said quickly, stepping towards him quite unconsciously. "The estrangement, which, alas, has arisen between us was none of my making, remember."

If ever Sir Percy was a difficult man to read, Marguerite quickly decided that that was the moment, he cold response was: "Begad, you must pardon me there, Madame! My memory was always of the shortest."

Yes, he was a very difficult man to decipher in that moment. He regarded her with the lazy nonchalance which had become second nature to him, nevertheless there was something further in his look. She met his gaze for a moment before her eyes softened and she slowly walked towards him, to the foot of the terrace steps.

"Of the shortest, Sir Percy!" she breathed. "Faith, how it must have been altered! Was it three years ago or four that you saw me for one hour in Paris, on your way to the East? When you came back two years later you had not forgotten me."

He stood perfectly still for a moment, cold and rigid. It did not, however, escape his notice that she looked divinely pretty in the moonlight, the fur cloak sliding from her delicate shoulder as the gold embroidery of her dress shimmered about her, her childlike blue eyes shining up at him, and his hand clenched against the stone balustrade of the terrace.

"You desired my presence, Madame," eh said coldly. "I take it that it was not with a view to indulging in tender reminiscences."

She knew that she ought to have played by the unspoken rules of the game of marital rupture, returning coldness for coldness, and sweep past him with naught but a haughty look of scorn and disdain. However, the keen instinct which makes a beautiful woman conscious of her powers long to bring to his knees the one man who pays her no homage prevailed, and she remained, reaching out her hand to him.

"Nay, Sir Percy, why not?" she enquired. "The present is not so glorious but that I should not wish to dwell a little in the past."

With ceremony and decorum he kissed the hand she had extended, and Marguerite felt a small stab of disappointment at his maintenance of his calm nonchalance. "I' faith, Madame," was his reply, "then you will pardon me if my dull wits cannot accompany you there."

He made to go once again, but his wife was not yet prepared to lay the matter to rest. Her voice, sweet, childlike, and very near to tender, called him back once more: "Sir Percy."

"Your servant, Madame."

Such informalities! How had she fallen so far in his graces? Desperation gave way to sudden, unreasoning vehemence as she said, "Is it possible that love can die? Methought that the passion which you once felt for me would outlast the span of human life. Is there nothing left of that love, Percy…" she faltered, but forged on, "which might help you… to bridge over that sad estrangement?"

She had not previously believed it possible, but amazingly she witnessed his form stiffen still further as his mouth hardened and a look of unrelenting inflexibility appeared into habitually lethargic blue eyes.

"With what object, I pray you, Madame?" was he cold demand.

Once more Marguerite felt her inner courage flounder, but she determinedly kept it from appearing on her features. She had been an actress before her marriage, and she would be an actress still if need be! "I do not understand you," she replied.

His retort, which came nearly instantaneously, was instilled with a sudden bitterness which sprang to life and seemed to course in the words he uttered, even as he made visible efforts to restrain it. "Yet 'tis simple enough. I humbly put the question to you, for my slow wits are unable to grasp the cause of this, your ladyship's sudden new mood. Is it that you have the taste to renew the devilish sport which you place to successfully last year? Do you wish to see me once more a love-sick suppliant at your feet, so that you might again have the pleasure of kicking me aside, like a troublesome lapdog?"

'Devilish sport?' Even as her stomach jerked uncomfortably, she looked directly at him, as it was thus she remembered him as a year previous. And yet, despite her newfound hope (if it could be deemed worthy of such a name, as the mood was quite lacking in the optimism), she found herself whispering very nearly brokenly. "Percy! I entreat you! Can we not bury the past?"

"Pardon me, Madame, but I understood you to say that your desire was to dwell in it."

Idiot man! "Nay! I spoke not of _that _past, Percy!" she cried as her voice began to display a tone of tenderness. "Rather did I speak of the time when you loved me still, and I… Oh, I was a vain and frivolous youth; your wealth and position allured me; I married you, hoping in my heart that your great love for me would beget in me a love for you… but, alas…"

"Twenty-four hours after out marriage, Madame," he said coldly, "the Marquise de St. Cyr and all his family perished on the guillotine, and the popular rumor reached me that it was the wife of Sir Percy Blakeney who helped to send them there."

"Nay!" she cried. "I myself told you the truth of that odious tale."

"Not till after it had been recounted to me by strangers, with all its horrible details."

Even through her hurt and despair, Marguerite felt the stirrings of anger. "And you believed them then and there," she accused passionately, "without proof or questions--you believed that I, whom you vowed you loved more than life, whom you professed you worshipped, that _I_ could do such a thing so base as these _strangers _chose to recount. You thought I meant to deceived you about it all--that I ought to have spoken before I married you: yet, had you listened, I would have told you that up to the very morning on which St. Cyr went to the guillotine, I was straining every nerve, using every influence I possessed, to save him and his family. But my pride sealed my lips when your loved seemed to perish, as if under the knife of that same guillotine. Yet I would have told you how I was duped! Aye! I, whom that same popular rumor had endowed with the sharpest wits in France! I was tricked into doing this thing, by men who knew how to play upon my love for an only brother, and my desire for revenge. Was it unnatural?"

She stopped, pulling a deep breath as her voice choked with tears, avoiding his gaze for a moment before looking appealingly at him. It was as if he himself were her judge. He had let her speak, refusing to offer comment or sympathy: and now, while she regained herself, attempting to subdue the tears that rushed to her eyes, he waited, still impassive and immobile. The moon had long since set and now the dim, gray light of the early dawn seemed to endow his form with the appearance of being yet taller and more rigid. Gone was the lazy, good-natured look, though Marguerite was so beside herself that she failed to see that his eyes were no longer languid, mouth no longer good-humored or inane. A strange look of intense passion seemed to glow from beneath his drooping lids, his mouth pressed as though will alone kept the passion in check.

Marguerite was aware, however, of one very important thing. She knew in but a moment that she, for the past few months, had been entirely mistaken: this man who stood before her, cold as a statue, loved her as he had loved her a year ago. She realized that, while his passion might have been dormant, it was there, as strong, as intense, as overwhelming, as when her lips first met his in one long, maddening kiss.

Pride, she now knew, had kept him from her and, as any woman of her likeness would, she meant to win back that which had been hers before. Very suddenly, and with more strength than she cared to acknowledge, it seemed to her that the only happiness that life could possibly afford her again would be in feeling that man's kiss once more upon her lips.

This impetus spurred her onward, and her voice was low, sweet, and infinitely tender when she next spoke. "Listen to the tale, Sir Percy," she urged. "Armand was all in all to me! We had no parents, and brought one another up. He was my little father, and I, his tiny mother; we loved one another so. Then one day--do you mind me, Sir Percy? The Marquis de St. Cyr had my brother Armand thrashed--thrashed by his lackeys--that brother whom I loved better than all the world! And his offence? That he, a plebeian, had dared to love the daughter of the aristocrat; for that he was waylaid and thrashed… thrashed like a dog within an inch of his life! Oh, how I suffered! His humiliation had eating into my very soul! When the opportunity occurred, and I was able to take my revenge, I took it. But I only thought to bring that proud marquise to trouble and humiliation. He plotted with Austria against his own country. Chance game me knowledge of this, I spoke of it, but I did not know--how could I guess?--they trapped and duped me. When I realized what I had done, it was too late."

The silence that fell between them was difficult to define, and thus Marguerite endeavored not to attempt. Then he spoke, "It is perhaps a little difficult, Madame, to go back over the past. I have confessed to you that my memory is short, but the thought certainly lingered in my mind that, at the time of the Marquise' death, I entreated you for an explanation of those same noisome popular rumors. If that same memory does not, even now, play me a trick, I fancy that you refused me _all _explanation then, and demanded of my love a humiliating allegiance it was not prepared to give."

Marguerite's heart sank. "I wished to test your love for me, and it did not bear the test. You used to tell me that you drew the very breath of life but for me, and for love of me."

"And to probe that love, you demanded that I should forfeit mine honor," he said, but even as the words accused, his impassiveness and rigidity seemed to both fade. "That I should accept without murmur or question, as a dumb and submissive slave, every action of my mistress. My heart overflowing with love and passion, I _asked _for no explanation--I _waited _for one, not doubting--only hoping. Had you spoken but one word, from you I would have accepted any explanation and believed it. But you left me without a word, beyond a bald confession of the actual horrible facts; proudly you returned to your brother's house and left me alone… for weeks… not knowing, now, in whom to believe, since the shrine, which contained my one illusion, lay shattered to the earth at my feet."

To soothe her floundering heart, she now noted that, quite the opposite of his coldness and impassiveness, his voice now shook with an intensity of passion, which he seemed to make superhuman efforts in keeping in check.

Sadly, she said, "Aye! The madness of my pride! Hardly had I gone, already I had repented. But when I returned, I found you, oh, so altered, Wearing already that mask of somnolent indifference which you have never laid aside until… until now."

"Nay, Madame, it is no mask," he retorted coldly. "I swore to you… once, that my life was yours. For months now it has been your plaything… it has served its purpose."

However, most unfortunately for Sir Percy, his wife had already deduced the fact that even his current coldness was nothing but the very mask he denied. All of the pains and fears she had suffered throughout the opera, when Chauvelin had first held her brother's life over her head, and Lord Grenville's ball, where she had, out of desperation to save her brother, possibly revealed the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel to Chauvelin, who was quite possibly the man's greatest enemy, they all came back to her then. However, there was no bitterness now; now there was the hope that this man who loved her would help her to bear the burden.

"Sir Percy," she said impulsively, "heaven knows you have been at pains to make the task which I had set to myself terribly difficult to accomplish. You spoke of my mood just now; well, we will call it that, it you will. I wished to speak to you… because… because I was in trouble… and had need… of your sympathy."

It amazed her that, while she was near to tears yet again, he was able to stand there so seemingly unmoved. "It is yours to command, Madame."

"How cold you are!" she said with a sigh of growing despair. "Faith! I can scarce believe that but a few months ago one tear in my eye had set you to well-nigh crazy. Now I come to you… with a half-broken heart… and… and…"

"I pray you, Madame," he said, and now his voice shook nearly as hers did, "in what way can I serve you?"

"Percy!--Armand is in deadly danger. A letter of his… rash, impetuous, as were all his actions, and written to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, has fallen into the hands of a fanatic. Armand is hopelessly compromised… tomorrow, perhaps, he will be arrested… after that, the guillotine… unless… unless… oh! It is horrible!" she cried with a wail of anguish. In her mind she heard, over and over, that terrible 'either--or--?' that Chauvelin had given her, demanding that she betray the most heroic personage she had ever heard of in exchange for a brother who had been her entire world of most of her life. "Horrible!… And you do not understand… you cannot… and I have no one to whom I can turn… for help… or even for sympathy…"

Her tears, which she had endeavored to restrain to doggedly, could be held back no longer. In her mind's eye she saw her brother, her dear, beloved Armand, being lead to Madame Guillotine in Paris. The uncertainty of Armand's fate swamped her, and she teetered before falling against the stone balustrade, where she buried her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly.

As for her husband, he stood staring at her with what could possibly have been tears glistening in his own eyes. When Armand St. Just, and the peril in which he stood, had first arisen, Percy's face had paled a shade, and the look of determination and obstinacy was more apparent than ever. However, as he watched his wife's delicate frame shake with wrenching sobs, his eyes had softened. He did not, however, lose all pride.

"And so," he said with bitter sarcasm, "the murderous dog of the revolution is turning upon the very hands that fed it?" For Marguerite's part, such words only caused her to sob harder, until she was nearly doubled over with the weight of her fears and guilt over the fate of the St. Cyrs. "Begad, Madame," he added gently when her crying only increased, "will you dry your tears?… I never could bear to see a pretty woman cry, and I…"

Instinctively at the sight of her all-consuming helplessness and grief, and with a sudden overmastering passion, he stretched out his arms and would have seized her and held her to him. The urge to protect her from every evil with his very life, his very heart's blood, was strong, but pride had the better of it in his inner struggle once more. Percy restrained himself with a tremendous effort of will and said coolly, but still very gently, "Will you not turn to me, Madam, and tell me in what way I may have the honor to serve you?"

Marguerite sucked in a deep breath and pressed her hands violently to the balustrade, the stone scraping the soft palms over her hands as she made a fierce effort to control herself. She turned to him once more, the glistening tracks from the tears still on her cheeks, and held out her hand, which he kissed with the same automatic, punctilious gallantry. Her fingers, however, lingered in his for perhaps a second or two longer than what was necessary. His hand, she had perceived, was trembling slightly and was more than a little warm, whereas his lips had all the warmth of marble.

"Can you do aught for Armand?" she whispered, almost brokenly. "You have so much influence at court… so many friends…"

"Nay, Madame, should you not rather seek the influence of your French friend, M. Chauvelin? His extends, if I mistake not, even as far at the Republican Government of France."

She looked away, feeling the threat of tears once more. "I cannot ask him, Percy… Oh! I wish I dared to tell you… but… but… he has put a price on my brother's head, which…"

Oh, what she would have done for the courage to tell him all! What she had done--possibly betraying that great hero, the Scarlet Pimpernel--how she had suffered, how her hand had been forced. A great fear, however, kept her in check. She had been given hope that he still loved her, and her greatest wish was to win him back. She dared not put that tentative love in jeopardy by making another confession, one that could possibly render her more contemptible in his eyes. It was entirely possible that he would not understand, and would not sympathize with her struggles and temptations. His dormant love might perish entirely, and the thought was more than she could bear.

Percy's entire stance was one of intense longing--a veritable prayer for the confidence she fearfully withheld. When she remained silent he sighed tersely and said with marked coldness, "Faith, Madame, since it distresses you, we will not speak of it." A slight pause, and then: "As for Armand, I pray you have no fear. I pledge you my word that he shall be safe. No, have I your permission to go? The hour is getting late, and…"

"You will at least accept my gratitude?" she said with great tenderness, stepping yet even closer.

Percy quickly stifled the almost involuntary move he would have made to take her into his arms. Her eyes were still over bright with unshed tears, which he longed to kiss away. However, he was a man who learned from his mistakes: she had lured him once, just like this, then cast him off, rather like one would cast an ill-fitting glove. In his mind, this was naught but a mere mood, and he was too proud to fall prey to it once again.

"It is too soon, Madame!" was his quiet response. "I have done nothing as yet. The hour is late, and you must be fatigued. Your women will be waiting for you upstairs."

He stepped aside, allowing her to pass, and Marguerite sighed a sigh of disappointment. His pride and her beauty (such as it was when she was hysterical with grief) had been once more in direct conflict, and yet again his pride and come the victor. Perhaps she had been mistaken--perhaps what she had seen as love was naught but the passion of pride, perish the thought, hatred rather than love. She stared at him for a moment, as if the truth would somehow reveal itself. He, however, was as rigid, as impassive, as ever, and she came to the damning conclusion that she had, indeed, been wrong. He had no care for her.

He bowed to her ceremoniously, but she simply gave him a broken look before mounting the terrace steps, as if by continuing on her way she could some how cast away this man as he had so evidently cast away her. She focused on the soft _sh-sh-sh _sound her gown made as the train swept across the stone, because that sound was more real than anything else in that moment. She reached the top and laid a hand on the handle to the tall glass doors that led into the house, but stopped, looking back and hoping against hope to find him with open arms and calling her back. Her hopes, however, were instantly dashed: he had remained fixed in his place, the very picture of stubborn pride and ardent inflexibility.

She felt tears stinging her eyes once more, but refused to let him see, and so quickly turned and entered, running as fast as she could up to her own rooms.

Marguerite refused to stop running until she had reached her rooms, at which point she flung the door closed and sagged against it, struggling so severely to restrain her violent sobs that the exertion created a severe ache in her chest. Of course, she would have liked to say that it was caused merely from her struggle to withhold her tears, but she knew better: her heart was aching as fiercely as her lungs. He had loved her once, and only moments before she had been given hope that he might love her still. And yet… his parting words…

"Your ladyship must be very tired," the exhausted maid said, well nigh swaying on her feet.

"I am quite sure I will be presently," Marguerite said. "But go on. I will go to bed on my own."

"Are-"

"Go, Louise. I can see you are tired."

The woman left with a curtsy and a yawn, and Marguerite was left to her own company, for which she was grateful. With haste that was rather untoward of a lady, she shed herself of her gown and corset with little difficulty--she had, after all, done her own dressing during her years on the stage--and redressed in the most comfortable nightgown she owned. There was no point in holding her appearance to a high standard when there was no one to behold the fruit of her efforts.

She sat at her vanity then and began dissembling her hair from its elegant arrangement, watching her reflection. One by one, the pins fell with small clatters to the desk, though somehow the sound never once reached her ears. Marguerite knew, beyond any conceivable doubt, that she loved her husband. It had recently occurred to her that she always had, even when she thought her affections mere gratitude and appreciation for his unswerving devotion.

Now, however, she knew better. He was so very dear to her that it was painful to think of him, for she knew that no amount of love for her could change the contempt he looked at her with. She had sent the St. Cyrs to their deaths--no attempt to undo the damage would avail. And for that unintentional condemning, her husband would despise her forever. She reached up to remove one of the last pins from her hair, only to find that she had removed them all.

She sighed, feeling restless when she should have felt exhausted. Had Chauvelin discovered the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel? What would befall Armand? Suddenly Marguerite smacked her hands atop her vanity and leaped to her feet, staring hard at the window. Chauvelin had been a _friend!_ How could he do this to her? To _Armand?_

Again she sighed as she moved to look out the window. The sun was slowly rising, and though she had not gotten a wink of sleep, she was a far cry from being fatigued. Her worry for Armand, her upset that she may have betrayed that heroic figure, the Scarlet Pimpernel, and her stress over the capture and execution of either man was enough to create a great deal of nervous anxiety. After all, Armand had already departed for France days ago… What exactly was he doing there?

She attempted to calm herself. Percy had given his word that Armand would be safe, and the Scarlet Pimpernel had performed great feats upon more than one occasion. Surely everything would be all right. Yes, Chauvelin was very clever--he had once been her friend for a reason, after all--but the Pimpernel had to be equally clever, at least, to have evaded the French authorities for so long.

Marguerite stood very still for several long moments, toiling through her internal struggle. Then, very suddenly, she pursed her lips and jerked the curtains closed over the window. The situation was beyond her control, and it was time for her to go to bed.

* * *

Bingley House. London, England.

Caroline Bingley was not a woman known for concern for her fellow man, and therefore anyone who did not know her intimately would have been dreadfully perplexed by the look of extreme anxiety on her face. However dismissive she was in public, it was quite the opposite of her true personality. No one would ever suspect such a cold and apathetic woman of being one of the most active aids to the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Indeed, her engagement to Lord Anthony Dewhurst had created quite the stir in society, given that outwardly the two of them had little-to-nothing in common.

At that moment, however, Caroline hardly looked her part of the cold, distant, proud mistress of Netherfield Hall. She was unusually pale, and her face was taut and drawn with blatant worry. "Charles," she said, gripping her hands tightly, "I won't pretend to be unconcerned. If that note is still accurate, no one knows if these Bennét girls are even alive. The Committee had the men burn the house to the ground, and the younger three girls and the father were all arrested."

"And the mother was killed in the arrest, very true, but would Chauvelin have his lap dog searching for those two girls if they were dead?" her brother asked, and Caroline shook her head impatiently.

"Everyone knows that Marcellus Jerrard is obsessed with one of the Bennét twins," she informed him tersely. "Their relationship, and his shifting loyalties, were the scandal of the Continent when the revolution broke out thanks to her father's prestige, you know that."

"Which leads me to believe that those girls are still alive," Charles persisted, smiling easily at his sister. Caroline, however, was not so easily assuaged.

"It is difficult enough, with Lord Anthony constantly in that pit of death," she said shrilly. "If you go to France and are caught-"

"Don't worry, Caroline!" he laughed, going over to her and picking up her hands. "Tony knows what he's doing, we all do. You know that."

"Yes, but that Chauvelin is said to be the newest favorite with the Committee leaders, and he is not called a fox for nothing," she snapped, drawing her hands away. "And Marcellus Jerrard is following directly in his footsteps."

"Darcy and Blakeney would not send any of us on a suicide mission, Caroline. You know that they have a tendency to takes those themselves."

"Risking their own lives and running the chance of leaving Lady Blakeney or Georgiana on their own!" she cried, jumping to her feet. "None of you seem to realize the danger of what you do!"

"A few things for you to keep in mind, dearest sister," Charles said reasonably, placing his hands on her arms and giving them a reassuring squeeze. "One, we both know that neither Georgiana nor Lady Blakeney would be left uncared for if anything were to happen to their respective supporters, God forbid. Two, we all of us know perfectly well the danger of what we do, but we also know that we have good reason to do it. Would _you _let those innocent families be led to the guillotine?"

Caroline did not reply, which was answer enough for her brother; he grinned and said, "I thought as much. Given the opportunity, you would be right there beside us, and we both of us know it."

"That does not mean," she said archly, "that I am comfortable with my brother and my fiancée throwing themselves into such situations on a regular basis."

"Don't worry, Caroline," he said once again, taking her hand and squeezing it. "St. Just has already gone to find the imprisoned Bennéts, and tonight I'm off to find the twin girls. I shall return within two weeks, to be sure."

Caroline, again, did not reply, but this time it was not easy for her brother to read her. In truth, she didn't have the heart to tell him that she was very much afraid that he would be gone longer than two weeks. According to the note her brother still held, the Bennét family had been separated somewhere outside Marseille, which was a port city on the southern edge of France--quite a distance from Netherfield Hall. Not only this, but no one knew where the Bennét twins had disappeared to, not even Marcellus Jerrard, who was spearheading the French search for the twins.

No, Charles would be gone for a good deal longer than two weeks. That is, he would return later if he survived to return at all. The Bennéts were a high-profile family, thanks to their rank; France would not give them up easily.

Naturally, she did not say any of this. Instead she turned and faced her brother, adopting a smiling, calm expression that in no way betrayed her inner turmoil. "Of course, Charles," she said. "Now come with me; we are to have tea with Lady Newhurst, dreadful woman, and I refuse to endure it alone."

Charles' expression was horrified. "Why did you not tell me?" he cried. "That Newhurst woman has been trying to link my name to her daughter's for the past two years!"

Caroline laughed and took her brother's arm. "Perhaps you ought to just accept the inevitable and marry the girl. She would not prove to be _terribly _annoying, I'm sure."

"Not to you," Charles muttered. "You wouldn't be living with her!"

* * *

Very special thanks to: Jena: Lol, unfortunately for us all, it'll bea while before everyone meets, but as we go along they'll all end up closer and closer together. 

percyismine: I'm so glad that the action bit was up to par! I'm always been particularly self-conscious of those, lol.

ArwenEvenstar83: Sorry this update took so long. Blame my school teachers and directors for that, lol. I hope it was worth the wait!

darksidetwin2: Oh, I'm so glad you like Josephine!I was afraid that most people would hate her, since she's an OC and will be taking up what could be a lot of Lizzy/Darcy time. Because she will. But not too much, so don't worry.

austen freak: I'm so glad you're enjoying this, and I hope I can keep it up to par! If I start slipping, let me know ASAP, lol!

Melly: I'm so glad you're enjoying this. Lol, I'm writing it for folks like you and me--obsessed with both but unable to find a way to link the two. I hope I'm not disappointing!

embracing: Lol, it'll be pretty crazy, confusing, and muddled up for a while. There are so many story lines to follow! We have Elizabeth and Jane, which split up at one point; Darcy, who mostly follows Elizabeth's; Charles, whose storyline mostly follows Jane's; Josephine; Richard; Georgiana and Caroline, along with Sir Andrew and Lord Tony; Percy; Marguerite; the younger Bennéts; Marcellus; Chauvelin;Armand... I'm sure there are more, too. Hopefully I'll be able to keep things fairly clear, lol.


	5. Chapter Three

A/N: Sorry this took so long, and I hope it'll be worth the wait. I've brought Lizzy back, if it wins me any points, lol. Review responses are all on my LiveJournal, so check that out if you left a review from the last chapter.

* * *

Chapter Three  
In Which Elizabeth and Jane are Alone and Josephine Reappears

Early morning, July 14, 1799  
Somewhere outside Marseille. France.

The gray light of false dawn blanketed the earth when Elizabeth finally returned to wakefulness. Her eyes burned vaguely, a silent testimony to the violent tears that, apparently, she had fallen asleep crying. She blinked, trying to lessen the stinging, but had to satisfy herself with cautiously raising herself enough to see around her when the burning sensation only dulled slightly.

Her surroundings were completely silent, brining to mind surrealism and rural roads with their respective phantoms. Frowning at her own frivolity--she was no longer a child, no matter how much she might wish to be--she slowly sat back on her heels. Jane was still in the depths of slumber, indicated more by the steady rise and fall of her chest than anything else; the blood from her wound on her right shoulder had dried overnight, but the injury itself was as caked in filth as it was in blood. Elizabeth swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat and stood to continue surveying their surroundings.

Her sisters were no where in sight, and her father was equally absent. Her mother-- She blinked back a sudden onslaught of tears. The Marquise de Bennét was dead. There was no way around it. Not just dead--murdered. Murdered by Marcellus Jerrard. Elizabeth clenched her fists and lifted her chin. I hope you are on friendly terms with God despite waging a war on the Church, Marcellus, she thought acidly, because only He can help you now.

Elizabeth turned towards the orchard, and her spine, which had stiffened at the thought of Marcellus, wilted: the orchard, which might have protected them from Marcellus and his men, was naught but two hundred yards from her, perhaps a little more. So close to where she stood! They had been so very close to freedom and relative safety…

She turned abruptly, attempting to force the thought from her mind. Now she could see the house they had lived in for so long. Before, it had been a decrepit but relatively livable manor; now it was a hollow shell. Marcellus had had it burnt to the ground, to all appearances--the house was still smoldering, and spots of flame that had yet to burn out dotted the ruins of the old manor. No hiding there.

It was then that she noted the series of white… things, that were lined neatly in rows just out of range of what, earlier, had been a blazing conflagration of no little magnitude. She narrowed her eyes at the white things, only to realize that they were tents.

Tents! They could only, Elizabeth knew, mean one thing: Marcellus was searching for them. She dropped back to her knees abruptly and scurried over to her twin, who was still asleep. Elizabeth reached out and gently shook Jane's unhurt shoulder.

"Jane," she hissed, afraid that the searchers she knew were out there would hear. "_Jane_!"

No response. Had Elizabeth not already known that her sister was alive, she would have panicked. However, she did know better, and so simply shook her sister a bit more forcefully. When Jane merely stirred a bit, Elizabeth made an aggravated noise and jumped once more to her feet, peering back in the direction of the camp. Everything seemed perfectly calm… _deceptively _calm. Marcellus and his men were there somewhere, she knew…

"Elizabeth?"

As abruptly as she'd stood, Elizabeth dropped to her knees once more and hunched over her twin. "We have to get out of here, Jane," she said urgently. "Father and our sisters have disappeared, and Mother was- was killed. Marcellus is searching for us as we speak. We must leave."

"Mother was _what_?" Jane demanded, grabbing onto her twin's arm and clutching it tightly. "She was-"

"Killed," Elizabeth confirmed, blinking tears again once again. "Marcellus shot her. Please, Jane, we can't stay here."

Jane nodded and began her struggle to sit up, wincing and biting her lip viciously when the wound pulled. Elizabeth grabbed up the packs they had carried with them during their flight the night before, slinging both over one shoulder and using her free side to help her sister.

"We have to run," Elizabeth cautioned as they clamored to their feet, each bracing up the other. "I don't know where any of the men are."

"Then run we shall," Jane replied grimly, her mouth set into a determined line.

Elizabeth had the time to nod in agreement before Jane, wounded though she was, launched into a dead sprint. Trailing along behind her, Elizabeth couldn't help but wonder where Jane found the energy for such speeds. Perhaps there was more to the ever quite and demure Jane than anyone had ever realized. When they reached the relative safety of the orchard, Jane stumbled to a halt and leaned heavily against a tree, gasping for breath, as Elizabeth surveyed their surroundings to ensure that they'd not been seen.

"We're safe enough for now, I believe," Elizabeth said after a moment, then turned and faced her twin, who was still leaning against the tree, her eyes squeezed shut. Elizabeth frowned in concern. "Are you all right?"

"I will be," Jane muttered. Pursing her lips, Elizabeth went over to her sister and surveyed the wound on her right shoulder.

"It isn't terrible, but it needs to be cleaned," she muttered. In her peripheral vision she saw Jane's blond head nod before she sank slowly to the ground, pressing a hand to her brow.

Elizabeth bit her lip fiercely as she looked down at her sister, who was slightly ashen. _We need sustenance, _she thought grimly, _but everything we had has been burnt to the ground_. Forcing the disheartening thought from her mind, Elizabeth knelt down beside her sister and pulled her into an embrace that was as much for her own benefit as for Jane's.

"We're alone," Jane whispered faintly. "We're completely alone."

* * *

Evening of July 15, 1799  
Prison in Marseille. France.

It really was a beautiful evening. The sunset was lovely, and the first few stars glittered in the sky; it was almost enough to inspire poetics, though Josephine had never been one for poeticism. Of course, it was rather difficult to see this poetry-inspiring beauty when one was trapped serving slop to imprisoned "enemies of France."

The prison at Marseille was not nearly so renowned as the prisons in Paris, nor were the executions. However, the guillotine's work was celebrated with equal gusto--and the prison conditions were just as horrid--as in Paris. Hunched over in her guise of an old woman, Josephine dished out a bit of the slop (she wasn't entirely sure what it was, or if she _wanted _to know what it was) and, after selecting a specific spoon from her apron, she slid it through the flap in the door of the cell.

She repeated this at the next three cells, praying that some freak mistake had not caused her to deliver the special spoons, and the notes attached to them, to the wrong prisoners; she was not about to let Chauvelin get what he wanted in executing one of the few remaining families of high rank in France--the Bennéts would escape if it was the last thing she did.

It was not, of course, by any love of the aristocracy that she was determined to free the Marquis and his three children. In fact, she had rather fancied herself a republican at the beginning of the revolution. The time of the monarchy was past, and the oppression of the people long overdue for its finish. Of course, she was also safely ensconced in England when the revolution began, and, despite that she had grown up in France, she had since realized that calling herself republican while safe in England was a bit hypocritical.

Not only this, but her support of her the people fell dramatically when she realized that the bold and noble revolution had become a bloodbath in the name of liberty. She supported liberty, not murder, and in her blunt opinion, the French people had made themselves lower than the aristos they condemned with every fall of the guillotine.

The Bennéts--or who she hoped was the Bennéts, at least--were the last of her rounds. As she made her way towards the kitchens (if they could be called by such a name, unlike a true kitchen as the place was), Josephine mentally reviewed the note that she had left, carefully disguised, on the handle of the spoon: _Thirty minutes after this is delivered to you, leave your cell. The door will be unlocked, and the guards will be gone. Go to your right down the corridor and up the first steps you see. A woman with straw-colored hair will be waiting for you on the first landing._

Therefore, in the next thirty minutes, she had to change her disguise, undetected; go to the east wing and create her distraction, also undetected; make her way back to the west wing of the prison, undetected; rid herself of her disguise and take up her post on the landing (she had unlocked the cells while delivering the slop, and therefore had saved herself the trouble of unlocking them under a time constraint), undetected; and, finally, somehow get her charges as well as herself out of the prison--out of Marseille altogether--_undetected_. Stealth and inconspicuousness were of the essence; Josephine was no fool. To be caught would be to earn herself a one-way trip to the guillotine, even if it was never realized that she had been attempting to abet in a prison breakout.

_Paul Chauvelin, I fear, is not a man to take being slighted with good humor_, she thought wryly as she shoved the cart into the kitchen, glaring about at everyone she crossed like an ill-tempered spinster with a severe rheumatism. Confounded mother of mine, if she had simply let me alone…

Having ascertained that she would not be missed in the slightest, Josephine carefully slipped away and began making her way towards the east wing. As she progressed, she picked up anything that might burn, building a small collection of flammables with which to create her diversion.

She would have to choose her location carefully, or she would succeed in little outside killing the innocent prisoners trapped in their cells. The irony of the phrase 'innocent prisoners' flitted across her mind, but an instantly later was dismissed for two reasons: One, because it was true--most of the inmates in French prisons were, indeed, innocent. Two, she had more important things to think of than odd turns of phrase, the rescue of the Bennét family not the least of them.

Just before she made to cross the center portion of the prison, Josephine slipped into a secluded corner and swiftly changed her disguise. Within the space of mere instants, she transformed herself from a crabby, misshapen old woman to a young woman--more a girl, really--named Nicolette with shapely hips and a faded _bonnet rouge_ that she had, perhaps, taken from a male acquaintance who might have been particularly attached to her.

The irony of the name Josephine had chosen for this particular guise never failed amuse her--Nicolette the Young French Girl was flirtatious, even for a Frenchwoman, and was known throughout Marseille for her "attentions" to deserving revolutionaries. None of the rumors were true, of course, but none of the gossips knew that detail. Nicolette was popular amongst the young men of the revolution, as it was a well-known "fact" that, should Nicolette decide to show her face, one or more of them may find themselves in her favor. Nicolette was a right prostitute in the making.

"Nicolette" was also named for Josephine's mother.

Of course, achieving the shapely, pretty look that Nicolette possessed was hardly unproblematic. Josephine had always been slight, and while she did possess a passable figure, she was not by any means curvaceous--quite the opposite of the well-rounded Nicolette. Only meticulous padding in the right places allowed Josephine to maintain Nicolette's well-formed identity.

Her pretty, flirtatious smile close at hand, Josephine-Nicolette bundled up her things in a cloth, sufficiently hiding all that she carried, and then proceeded to sashay across the building into the eastern wing. There were more than a few calls to her as she made her way across--a man's hope is unceasing--and she responded to them all as Nicolette would, with many cries of "_À bas les aristos_!" as she made her way. Soon, however (though not soon enough to suit her wishes), Josephine found herself alone and in a corridor that eventually lead to a small side exit which in turn lead to a desolate courtyard floored with cobblestones and enclosed by high stone walls.

It was in the corner farthest from the building within this courtyard that Josephine unwrapped her bundle, producing several scraps of filthy (but dry) cloth; a bit of flint and steel; a few small, rather pathetic looking bits of wood that could hardly be called sticks; and a mediocre-sized "horn" (she could hardly remember what it was called; even in her new life as a French fugitive, she could hardly be bothered to remember such terminology) of gunpowder that she had pilfered from a citoyen a fortnight before in the hopes of finding a use for it. Now, it seemed, she would, and she was glad that the effort would not prove to have been for nothing.

Quickly she rid herself of her disguise, tearing off a long strip of the cloth she had used as a head covering in her old woman guise as she worked. As she flung her disguise in the corner of the courtyard, Josephine nervously glanced over her shoulder, terrified that she would be found. There was no doubt to her convictions--if found, she would fight to the death. She had come too far, and survived too long, to let herself be led to the guillotine, or stand before a firing squad, or whatever other means the French revolutionaries might think of to utilize in her execution.

After carefully arranging the tinder about the cloth that was her former disguise, she took the thin strip she had torn from the veil-like cloth and laid it on the cobblestones, one end touching the pile of cloth and tinder. Then she took the container of powder (_Perhaps I truly ought to learn what one calls such a thing_, she thought idly, tossing another glance over her shoulder) and, after opening it, sprinkled a small bit at the end of the strip of cloth. The horn itself she left open and placed in the center of the cloth and kindle.

She made the Sign of the Cross for the first time in months, more than a little concerned--if she somehow blew herself up, she would be of very little use to the Bennéts--then grabbed up the flint and steel and, before she could lose her nerve, struck them, letting the sparks fly onto the powder.

Ignition was instantaneous, thanks to that black powder, and only a quick reflex saved her from burning her hand. As it was, she had felt a slight sting, and she raised her poor, afflicted hand to her mouth, frowning at the burning strip of cloth. Then, of course, she managed to remember that she was not at her leisure to wait for an eminent explosion (or, at least, what she hoped would be an explosion, if not an overly large one), and so turned and fled for the corridor she had only moments ago quitted.

Making her way through that east wing was not difficult; the difficulty lied in getting past the main part of the prison. The men stationed there to receive prisoners had seen Nicolette pass, but they had not seen Josephine. Indeed, had any of them seen Josephine cross, they would have arrested her straight away and packed her off to Paris, where the Committee of Public Safety waited to sink their claws into her. Indeed, that they had yet to capture her over the course of the past eight months (give or take) was in itself an absolute miracle.

God, how to accomplish this? She was hardly a master in the ways of all things stealthy; she was simply a young woman with a desperate need to get to the other side of that prison! Josephine soon discovered that, not for the first time (certainly not the last, either), fate was on her side. Even as she began to despair of a quiet, inconspicuous trip to the other wing of the prison, the great doors were flung open, and a young man she recognized only vaguely strode in as if he were about to be announced the leader of France.

Though she didn't know it, the young man was none other than Marcellus Jerrard, come to gather reports on the search for the Bennét twins. However, all Josephine knew was that this man had proved a wonderful distraction--as soon as the men had moved forward to greet him, she slipped behind them and was soon safely hidden in the corridors of the west wing.

Her relief was short-lived--why had her diversion not taken place yet? Surely it could not take _that _long for a simple bit of cloth to burn! It occurred to her that perhaps it had somehow been extinguished, and she whirled about and stared down the corridor in the direction she had just come from.

Before she had resolutely avoided observing the corridors. Now, however, it was inescapable. The dark gray walls, with their worn and dirty stone charred from some long-ago fire, were forbidding enough; the dim lighting only worsened--or perhaps enhanced--the intimidating affect. The halls seemed to stretch on forever, and Josephine suddenly felt more insignificant than any self-respecting human being had the right to.

After an instant to collect herself, she then promptly proceeded to curse her own luck. She would not find yet another easy distraction in her return to that blasted courtyard and that blasted pile of tinder to relight it. No, she was on her own now. She began to stride purposefully back towards the east wing.

A timely explosion rumbled through the corridors of the prison and set Josephine running back towards the west.

She had to reach the landing--or any hiding place, for that matter--before the guards rushing to see what had happened espied her and tossed her into a cell of her own. Hearing thunderous footsteps coming towards her from the west, she cast a desperate gaze about her, struggling to find any sort of place in which to conceal her person- _there_!

Josephine flung herself into a convenient hidey hole in the form of an empty cell, the door to which she didn't dare completely close--what if she somehow locked herself in that wretched place by accident? No, it was not a chance to be taken. Even as she flung herself into the shadows, however, the footsteps doubled in their volume, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, struggling to quiet her breathing. Despite her struggles, it seemed, she still could not regulate her desperate breaths, and so she focused on inhaling the amount of air her body obviously required while doing so quietly.

Perhaps her efforts had been helpful, or perhaps they hadn't. Either way, it was a mere moment before the footsteps had rushed past and were fading into the distance. Josephine peeked out of her hiding place, looked about and, after determining that it was sufficiently safe, she slipped out and resumed her race down the corridor.

It seemed like ages before she finally reached the steps to the landing she had mentioned in her note, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she half-collapsed against the wall. It would not be long, she knew, before the Bennéts--or, at least, whom she _hoped _were the Bennéts--were with her on the landing, at which point they could make their escape. Marseille was not a safe place for _any _of them, particularly the Bennéts. They sooner they could leave…

She heard the sounds of footsteps, and it was clear to her trained ear that the person making said footsteps was doing his or her best to make them as silent as possible. Josephine tucked herself into the shadows, staring intently at the narrow stairwell. Soon enough, a man followed by three girls mounted the steps. All four looked utterly terrified.

Josephine gasped, hardly daring to believe it. "You are the Bennéts, yes?" she asked excitedly, stepping into the light. "I haven't ruined everything completely?"

"Yes," one of the girls--the youngest one, by the looks of her--said defiantly, stepping forward with a rebellious look to her.

Sagging with relief, Josephine gave them all a brilliant grin. "There is nothing you could have said that would make me happier at this moment. Unless, of course, you were to tell me that the Republic is dissolving as we speak." She waved for the (mildly confused-looking, to be sure) Bennéts to follow her, racing back down the stairs. After determining that the passages were free of those who might stop them (that is to say, entirely free of presences of the human persuasion), Josephine turned to her right and began to run, praying that the Bennéts wouldn't lag behind.

Most fortuitously, they were remarkably able to keep up as they sprinted down the stone corridors, careening around corners and half-stumbling on stairs. However, not long after learning that her worry on that score was baseless, she found a new concern--the run through the corridors, a path she had traveled many times in preparation for this very situation, was taking so very long… Surely they couldn't be lost…

Then, with a cry of triumph, she spotted the heavy wooden door that led the outside, and thus to freedom. Josephine had absolutely no idea what had induced the builders to install a door that led directly to the outside in a prison, but at that point she was not about to question it. That door, in fact, was the only thing standing between herself and the Bennéts and a rather crude death by decapitation. She flung herself at it, yanking the key to the door out of her bodice ) where she had smuggled it, and stuffed it in the lock.

She struggled with the lock for what felt like an hour, then very nearly fell through the door when she kicked it open in frustration after urging the Bennéts to follow her, she sprinted off into the night, praying to lose any pursuers as they ran through the city.

* * *

_À bas les aristos! -_ Basically, "Down with the aristocrats!"

**Special thanks to:** percyismine, ArwenEvenstar83, darksidetwin2, austenfreak, Bhavana, embracing, cookie, and midnightdreams. I heart you all much!


	6. Notice!

Hello all!

This is a removal notice. Before you throw things at me, let me explain: I started this with a very under-developed plotline, but I've gone back and tweaked things, made it a bit more developed. Basically, it's more solid, and will therefore be less confusing. In just a bit, I'll be posting the revised and edited character list under a different title: 'Of Children and Flowers.' Most of the beginning won't change much--I'll just edit it to make it a bit more readable and repost it. Later on, though, we'll have a more solid plot.

So, there you have it; I'm taking this down, but I'm replacing it with something better. I hope you don't mind. )

Love to all, Sarah


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